Champions:  First Strike
by LadyDeb1970
Summary: Fifth in the Champions series:  Dark forces seek to reclaim former allies.  They won't take 'no' for an answer and they will use whatever tools are available.  Boromir and the girls have a few things to say about THAT.
1. Prologue:  Blood of the Innocent

Disclaimer: Boromir of Gondor and all other denizens of Middle-earth do not belong to me, but to JRR Tolkien's estate and to some degree, Peter Jackson. However, the reincarnations of said denizens, as well as other modern type people, and the town of Campbell, do belong to me. I don't mind if you borrow them. . .just ask first and return them to me more or less intact.

Author's Note: Well, I did tell you that things would be seriously 'game on' in this story, and this prologue pretty much sets the tone for the rest of the story. My instinct is that this will be no more than ten chapters, including the prologue and epilogue, but I can't be sure. As ever, I can make no promises with regards to updates. . .I'm working at the polls on Tuesday, and also waiting to hear about a job I interviewed for last Friday. Footnotes are at the bottom, and oh yes, a former denizen of Middle-earth makes a (brief) appearance in this chapter. You'll know when you encounter him. (evil grin) Hope you enjoy this new offering!

Champions: First Strike

Prologue: Blood of the Innocent

October 2006

The man who called himself 'Michael Rafferty' pushed himself to his feet, inhaling deeply of the crisp air of early October in North Carolina. He glanced around his current project, smiling a little at what he saw. When Megan was a child, this was one of her favorite places to visit. He learned this the first time she brought him here, and he could understand why. . .then and now. It was a veritable wonderland for children, with a miniature train that circled the property and something that appeared to be an overly-large, mutated seesaw crossed with a peddle boat, along with other carnival rides. He was quite sure there was a specific name for it, but he hadn't heard what that might be. It was actually the miniature train (something he found far more interesting) that brought Michael out to the Petrenko farm, which sat on the county line.

Once they finished work for the day, that train would run on a track that encircled the property. Over the next three months. . .October, November, and December. . .only the decorations on the trees would change. The following weekend would see whoever was available putting up Halloween decorations up in the trees, against the trees, and wherever else they could think of. In the early weeks of November, those Halloween decorations would be swapped for Thanksgiving decorations; and in December, the Christmas decorations would come out. He would return in January, at the latest, to help disassemble the track. Emphasis on 'at the latest.' There was a strong possibility he would come out to help before then.

According to Francis Rafferty, the original patriarch of the family, Nikolai Petrenko, came to the United States nearly a hundred years earlier, following the Bolshevik Revolution. He arrived in New York, and then made his way down to North Carolina, where he settled with his wife and four children. Another two children were born after they made their home in North Carolina, and it was the only remaining child, Maxim, who now held the property. He also began the family tradition of decorating the farm for the winter season with each holiday in that three-month period.

That began during the Great Depression. In those early years, the decorations were few and far between, but the Petrenkos, like so many in that time, were a resourceful family, discovering ways to turn pine cones and even pecans into things of beauty. Megan's mother told him just how resourceful her mother and grandparents were, pointing out similar items in the Rafferty home. As the years passed, the tradition was kept up, even while his sons were serving first in Korea, then in Vietnam. Maxim Petrenko was eighty-five now, and reminded Michael rather strongly of the two hundred fifty year old pecan tree that dominated his property. . . .tall and strong and a survivor.

Maxim was leaning against the aforementioned tree, smiling faintly as Michael stepped back to view what was accomplished so far. And he had to admit, he was rather pleased the way the train was looking. The train's owner observed, "I wish we met sooner. . . you're the first person who has been able to do that on his first attempt." Michael shrugged. Usually, he would have been with the Graysons, but they were out of town. Besides, it was good to do different things from time to time. The other man continued, "You actually reminded me of my brother Christopher just now, while you were fastening the cars together. He would have loved what this has become."

Michael looked at the older man, hearing the wistful tone in his voice. Maxim explained, glancing at his twelve year old great-granddaughter, introduced as 'Tania,' who was raking leaves, "He loved children. . .was forever fixing the toys of our neighbors' children or making the toys himself. It was a crime that he never had the chance to be a father." Michael kept silent. There was no need to speak even if he knew what to say. Gavin told him that Christopher Petrenko was killed in World War II, only days before he was to come home. Maxim went on, "I like to think Chris has been watching, has seen all the upgrades over the years. But now I'm making you uncomfortable, and that's not fair to you. Megan warned me to take care of you before she left." This time, Michael rolled his eyes.

"Megan tends to be overly-protective," he replied. Not that this was a bad thing, or even aggravating. In fact, Michael tended to like it. Just like she tended to like his use of her proper name. However, unlike Megan, Michael did have to keep up appearances. On the other hand, it would seem that appearances that didn't seem to fool Maxim Petrenko, who merely smiled at him. His son Ion¹ emerged from the house in his motorized wheelchair, a pair of swords lying across his lap. Michael raised his eyebrows and asked, "Were you expecting unwelcome company, Mr. Petrenko?" Despite his dry tone, Michael's heart began to pound faster. And when Ion handed him a sword. . .it felt so right, gripping the weapon, as if something lost was returned to him. Gavin was sure, all along, that Michael was a soldier and a warrior in the past, but the proof was right here in his hand.

"These belonged to my uncle. . .he served in the Imperial Army before the Revolution. He was killed during the Revolution. . .I think Uncle Andrei's death was the final push my father needed to leave Russia. . .and Father inherited his swords. They're largely ceremonial, but I thought you'd enjoy a spar," Maxim replied. How would. . .? Maxim said softly, "I've watched you fight. You know how to use a sword. And I thought the children would appreciate seeing you fight." Again, how would he know these things? Maxim only smiled sadly and observed, "The last time I saw you, I wasn't myself. Yes, yes, Michael, I knew you in the past. Just as I know 'Boromir' is not a Russian or even Eastern European name, as Megan believed it was."

Michael swallowed hard. What went unspoken was another truth. . .Maxim Petrenko would not tell him about their shared past. Maybe he thought it was something that Michael needed to discover, or perhaps another reason. It was strange how many individuals like that were in Campbell and its environs. Which brought him to the issue of his memories. After he remembered his name, other memories broke free, including a strange blonde woman, who was not his mother. This woman, he sensed, was the key not just to his amnesia, but how he came to be in North Carolina. And then he heard the rest of the previous sentence, 'the children would appreciate seeing you fight.'

For the first time, he saw Maxim Petrenko's other great-grandchildren, grouped around their great-uncle Ion's wheelchair (he heard the youngsters calling the man 'Uncle Ion,' which is how he knew he was their great-uncle). Oh. Lovely. He hated performing in front of a crowd. But, as he learned the hard way, he was an absolute sucker for children (thank you, Gavin, for that particular lesson), and the thought of disappointing the youngsters was not a pleasant one. At least the twelve year old was in the shed, putting away her rake before joining the other children.

He was about to get an even more unpleasant surprise, however, as an unfamiliar voice said from behind him, "Oh. Are we interrupting?" Michael did an about-face, bringing up the (admittedly-ceremonial) sword in front of him, to find a black car sitting in the driveway. . .that hadn't been there even thirty seconds earlier. That was disquieting enough, but the Petrenko family farm had a gravel drive. . .they should have heard the car pulling up, at the very least. The two men standing in front of the car could have been identical twins with their black trousers and black overcoats, slicked back black hair and dark sunglasses.

But what really chilled him was the absolute certainty that _neither _of these individuals were humans. Oh, they inhabited the bodies of humans, but the consciousness currently in control most assuredly was not human. . .a certainty that had him stepping protectively in front of Ion Petrenko and the children, snapping over his shoulder, "Get them inside, get them away from here. _Now_." One of the newcomers smiled a thin, cold smile and Michael strode forward until he stood at Maxim's side, saying softly, "Get your son and great-grandchildren to safety, Mr. Petrenko. They are. . ."

"I know exactly whom. . .and what. . .they are, Boromir of Gondor. I have faced these beings before, and I do not fear them," Maxim answered steadily, adding something in Russian to his son. Ion nodded, and then herded the children toward the house. The two. . . Things. . .seemed amused, indicating that they had no interest in Ion or the children; just Michael and Maxim. There was no real reason to think they were interested in Michael, and he supposed he could have helped Ion with the children. However, the idea of allowing Maxim Petrenko to face this alone was. . .well, it just wouldn't happen. He wouldn't let himself think about what Maxim called him. Not now.

"And this time, you have no beautiful young niece to save you from my steed," Twin One said, sounding painfully amused, "However, you are not the one we seek now. Instead, you will take a message to the one called 'Lucius Wellington.' His former master calls Saruman to his side once more. Should he ignore this call, those who matter to him will suffer the consequences." Michael shuddered. He knew that name. And it wasn't from anything Gavin or Ronan said. The Thing added, "On the other hand, there are other ways to leave a message. . .and this way is sooo much more satisfying, we think."

Even as Michael was moving toward Maxim, the young girl who was raking leaves emerged from the garden shed and gasped in horror. Michael realized with a sinking heart that he had a choice. . .he could protect Maxim or he could protect the child. There wasn't time to do both. With a single, regretful look at Maxim, Michael was moving to intercept the girl, grabbing her about the waist, and pivoting until he was between the Things and the child. Maxim merely smiled at him, saying softly, "Let this be the hour that we draw swords together, Boromir of Gondor." With those fateful words, once more using the long-ago birth name of the man who now called himself 'Michael,' Maxim Petrenko gave a mighty cry and moved forward, to defend his home and his family.

He never had that chance. One of the Things raised a hand. . .and to Michael's horror, the sword in Maxim's hand turned. It turned back, until its point was pressed to Maxim's chest. The Thing in question made an odd motion with its fingers, and Tania screamed as the sword pierced his chest. But Maxim himself made not a sound, aside from a small, pained grunt, and then he fell to his knees. The ceremonial sword remained in his chest, impaling him. Michael focused on protecting the girl now sobbing and clinging to him, rather than on the sight of a man who might have become his friend collapsing to the ground; rather than on the sound of Maxim, gallant Maxim, choking on his own blood. _Stay focused,_ he reminded himself, keeping his eyes on the Things, _stay focused if you wish to keep yourself and Tania alive._

"Do you stand against us, mortal? Do you _dare_ stand against the great Sauron? Do you truly wish to meet the same fate at the fool who dies before us?" one of the Things asked in a sibilant whisper. Michael didn't answer with words. Instead, he kept the ceremonial sword leveled at these Things (Ringwraiths, someone whispered in the back of his mind) and his free arm wrapped protectively around the little girl who was watching her great-grandfather die. He remembered his vow during Founders Day. . .that these people were worth fighting for and worth dying for. It wasn't his desire to die, but. . .

"I know what you are," he whispered, "I know what you are, and I will never fear parasites such as yourself. If this is my day to die, then I will do so proudly at the side of that man, and in defense of this child. But you won't attack me, will you? No, you need someone to carry your message. The message has been delivered. . .now begone, foul beasts! Release these men!" The Thing which killed Maxim made a sound that no human could make. . .and then, both men collapsed as if they were marionettes and their strings were cut. Michael was the sole witness. . .Tania buried her face against his side, and saw nothing after Maxim's death. It wasn't until after the Ringwraiths' unfortunate victims sank to the ground, insensible, that Michael realized not a word was said in English, but the language Gavin and Ronan called 'Sindarin.'

That would wait. He dropped the sword to the ground-yes, he knew better, but he had other responsibilities now, and gathered the little girl in his arms properly. He stroked her hair tenderly, murmuring soothing nonsense to her, as he looked around warily. It wasn't the words, but the tone, when calming skittish animals and comforting traumatized children. Something terrible was coming, if it wasn't already here, and it claimed its first victim this afternoon. If Michael had anything to say about it, Maxim Petrenko would be the last innocent to shed blood.

¹Actually, 'Ion' _did_ come up as a Russian name, a variation of 'John,' when I was researching Russian proper names. Since I abhor going the obvious path, 'Ion' worked much better than 'Ivan.'


	2. Stormy Weather

Author's Notes: Sorry for the delay, y'all. . .unfortunately, I was sick for a few weeks, then the holidays started. There were other distractions (cough::_Torchwood_ and _Doctor Who_::cough) as well. Thanks to all who sent me their well wishes. . .unfortunately, I didn't get the job I interviewed for back in October. To all of my American readers, I hope you had a great Thanksgiving (we did!) and I also hope everyone enjoyed whichever holiday you celebrate, whether it's Christmas, Hanukkah, Yule. . .well, you get the idea. And finally, I hope everyone enjoys this chapter, as Boromir and the girls begin their investigation, and the Firstborn make an appearance. I must thank Aragorn of Redwall, whose review helped with the last section. Onward and upward!

Chapter One

Stormy Weather

Technically, this wasn't their case; it wasn't even their jurisdiction. But the Campbell PD often assisted the county sheriff, and her semi-amnesiac roommate was the only real witness to the crime that took place. Tania Petrenko, the oldest great-granddaughter of the victim Maxim Petrenko, was in shock. The two suits, Andrew Jamison and Gregory Roberts, had absolutely no memory of the last three days, much less killing a man with his own sword. The last thing either remembered was saying good-bye to their respective wives before leaving for work. . .in St. Louis, Missouri and Chicago, Illinois. They didn't know each other, didn't even work for the same company. And to top everything off, the SUV (cliché much?) was a rental from a company in South Carolina, and neither Roberts nor Jamison were listed on the paperwork. Oh yeah. Definitely weird.

Detective Megan Rafferty drifted away from the shaken pair, leaving the continued questioning to the deputy and to her partner Elena after receiving a subtle nod from the other woman. It seemed as if everyone (including the officers) involved in this situation was badly shaken, and rightfully so. A man was murdered in his yard, with his own sword. Poor Tania, who just received a _very_ unpleasant introduction to adulthood, was in shock, and whenever someone tried to coax her out of that state, she began sobbing that her great-grandfather's death was her fault. Michael already told her several times that wasn't the case. . .the poor kid was in a garden shed when the suits showed up, and Megan knew from experience just how hard it was to hear anything inside. But she would leave comforting Tania to her family. . .she needed to see to Michael. And then, once things quieted, she would see to Elena, who had her own trauma to deal with.

She found Michael leaning against a storage shed, watching as the scene was secured. He looked up as she approached, a half-smile touching his lips. . .a smile that never reached his eyes. However, she smiled back and said softly, "I just talked to the sheriff, and you're free to go, but they'll probably need to talk to you later. That's standard. . . people often remember more details once the shock has passed. Since I'm a fellow LEO¹, they'll give me a call first, assuming something doesn't occur to you in the meantime." He nodded again, and Megan hesitated, before saying, "I can't pretend to know what you're feeling, Michael, but I'm. . ." What? What was she, exactly? Aside from worried for Michael and Elena, who was remembering her grandfather's murder. Oh, her best friend hadn't _said _anything, but Megan could see it in her haunted eyes.

Michael, however, gave her a true smile this time and said, "I know. In my mind, I know there's nothing more I could have done to save Maxim. . .I had to keep Tania safe. She's a child, and so she had to be my first priority. But in my heart, I wonder if I could have done something more. . .yelled at her for go back into the storage shed, for instance. But that isn't even the worst part, Megan." Oh? Michael looked at her more fully, saying, "He knew me before. Maxim Petrenko called me by my birth name. 'Boromir of Gondor,' he called me."

'_Where the hell is Gondor_,' was the first thing that popped into Megan's head, but what she asked was, "There's more, isn't there?" As soon as the words were out, she could have kicked herself. That was a singularly idiotic thing to say. . .of _course_ there was something more, there always was! She added, "I'm sorry, dumb thing to say. Jamison and Roberts don't know what's going on, who hypnotized them, their name isn't on the paperwork for the rented SUV. I have a feeling the sheriff's department is gonna ask us to unofficially take this case, and Captain Anders will say 'yes.' It's just _weird_."

"Weirder than you know, Megan. Far weirder," Michael said somberly. That really didn't sound promising. He explained quietly, "You've heard, no doubt, Gavin and I speaking in a language that you don't recognize. The language is called 'Sindarin.' To date, only Ronan, Gavin and I are the only ones who have been speaking it. Until today. Maxim Petrenko was speaking that language, as was whatever was controlling Mr. Jamison and Mr. Roberts. They wanted us to relay a message. We were to tell him that Sauron wishes for the return of his servant Saruman to his side; should this call be disregarded, those who matter most to Saruman will pay the price." Megan sat down beside the blond man, running this new information through her mind.

After a moment, she asked, "Any idea whom Saruman and Sauron are supposed to be?" Michael shook his head, looking as troubled as she felt. Megan chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. She would pass this information along to the deputies on the scene, but her instinct was telling her that they had about as much idea about these two as she and Michael did. At last, she continued, "Okay, next question. I'm guessing that Sindarin is your native language, which begs the question. . .where exactly is that? And why have I never heard of this language?" It probably was a dead language, even deader than Latin or Greek or ancient Egyptian, but where could it have come from?

"I doubt very much that Sindarin is my native language. There are times when Gavin must use more than one phrase before I understand what he is saying. As to why you've never heard of Sindarin. . .I don't know. And all I remember of what is likely Gondor is a dazzling white city, built into a mountain. Or, perhaps I should say, carved out of a mountain. I remember little else," Michael acknowledged. Megan nodded, sifting through the conversation. Something hovered along the edges of her consciousness, about this 'Gondor,' but she shied away from it. Instead, she folded her arms over her chest, staring into the yard that held so many happy memories for her. She thought about the little girl she was once, coming to ride on the 'choo-choo' during the holidays by her parents or grandparents, and she thought about the little girl who just had part of her stability blasted away with her great-grandfather's murder.

At last, she said, "All right. I'll collect Elena, and let the sheriff know that we'll be available to help him with this. I have a sneaking suspicion, though, that this will end up being a cold case. Tania will likely suppress this, the only fingerprints on the sword will probably be those of Maxim's, so you're the only one considered a credible witness. It sounds to me as if Roberts and Jamison were brainwashed so completely that they don't remember anything except what their programmer wants them to remember. . ." Megan needed to check her psychology books left from college, but she was pretty sure an individual couldn't be programmed against their basic core.

"Not brainwashing. Possession," Michael stated. There was no hesitation in his voice, and Megan looked at him. He gazed steadily as he continued, "I looked into the eyes of those men, and saw nothing human there. No. No, they weren't brainwashed, Megan, at least not what you understand as brainwashing. They were possessed by something incredibly ancient. . .and even more evil." His tone was so sure, so completely rock-solid, that Megan shuddered.

BBBBBBBB

Well. So much for having a quiet day of catching up on paperwork. Then again, she should have expected that when she left her place this morning, only to find their friendly neighborhood streetwalker, plying her trade in front of the detective's building.² Elena didn't even want to guess how high she was this time. . .she simply called it in, and a patrol car was sent out to pick up Lily. Elena tried not to think about the fact that Lily was someone's daughter, someone's sister, maybe even someone's wife or mother. They didn't know her last name, had no clue if Lily was even really her name, and didn't have any way of finding out where her family might be. And so, Elena focused on what she could do. One of the hardest things to learn as a cop, she decided years earlier, was that you couldn't save the world, you couldn't save everyone, and sometimes, you were doing well to save just one person.

And then she received this call. She knew, of course, that Michael often helped out with the Graysons and others outside the city limits of Campbell. The poor man was getting bored, doing nothing but sitting around in Meg's apartment. He had already read all of her books (twice), and did laundry (the boy was a keeper). It only made sense, after he connected so well with the Graysons and their children, that he would return to the farm and help out with whatever they needed. He didn't just teach the children about self-defense, according to Meg, but also worked in the stables and in the shelter. With the Graysons out of town, he helped others. . . including the Petrenkos. Like Meg, Elena remembered going to the Petrenko farm as a little girl, especially around the holidays.

So to receive this call, to this place, and encounter this scene? No. Not one of her better days. Especially not after listening to the shell-shocked men who found themselves half-way across the country in a vehicle that wasn't theirs, and accused of a murder neither remembered committing. She wouldn't say so to anyone, but she already came to the same conclusion as Michael. These men were possessed. Not in the classical sense, and she really doubted if her priest could exorcise either man (or if it would now be necessary), but it was a possession. Not that she spoke to Michael yet. . .she and Megan arrived on the scene twenty-five minutes earlier, and both detectives had to speak to the two. . .suspects? Whatever they were, to say nothing of comforting Tania Petrenko.

She knew from Meg's concerned glance that her partner was remembering the murder of Elena's abuelito³, so many years earlier. But Elena was all right. Yes, the memory hurt even now, but it wasn't the same situation. Her abuelito was murdered during a robbery by a pair of drugged-out idiots. And the two men who were possessed were showing more remorse and grief than those bastards ever did. Never mind that they were possessed, never mind they had no choice, they were guilt-stricken. The bastards who killed her grandfather tried to weasel their way out of their guilt by saying the drugs absolved them, because they didn't know what they were doing.

Elena's hands were curling into fists at her sides, her fingernails digging into the soft skin of her palm, and she forced herself to relax. Maybe she wasn't as all right as she thought she was. The sheriff and his deputies had everything under control here, and after receiving a nod from the sheriff, Elena excused herself and headed over to her best friend and Michael. Megan offered her a half-smile, her classic 'I'm worried about you, but you can tell me about when you're ready' expression. Elena just had to smile back, even at a moment like this when she really didn't feel like smiling. How very typical of her friend. Elena didn't comment on that, choosing to focus on the new investigation. She said as she reached the pair, "So, what do you think?"

She pitched her voice low deliberately. Megan caught on immediately, her eyes flickering to the dazed child being comforted by her family, and said very softly, "Michael thinks they were possessed." Elena glanced at the blond man, who indicated his confirmation with a very faint nod. Well, that was good to know. She wasn't the only one whose mind was working in that direction. Megan went on, tactfully keeping her thoughts on possession to herself, "There are a few other things that are bothering me, but I think that can wait. Do they need us for anything else?"

This time, Elena shook her head. Megan released a breath, saying softly, "Okay. Michael, why don't you meet us at the car when you're ready. I need to say good-bye to Ion and the others." Michael inclined his head in that courtly way he had, then padded over to the shed where he placed his backpack. Megan turned to Elena, saying softly, "You're okay?" _You're okay_. That one phrase covered a lot of ground, especially with them. However, Elena simply smiled at her best friend and squeezed her hand. Losing her abuelito was one of the hardest things she'd ever experienced, but she'd been a young girl at the time, and while this situation brought back painful memories, it wasn't anything she couldn't handle.

"I'm _fine_, querida. Yes, it brought back memories, and yes, it hurts, but this isn't the same situation at all. I'm fine, I promise," Elena replied. Megan nodded, accepting her word, and Elena reflected that was one reason they were friends. Megan might not believe her, as such, when she told the other girl that she was all right. . .but she accepted what Elena told her. Trusted that Elena would tell her if she wasn't all right. Elena squeezed her friend's hand again and said, "So. My thought was that we get back to the station after dropping Michael off at your apartment, and see if we can turn up any information on Sauron or Saruman."

"And Gondor," Megan observed. Gondor? Elena raised her eyebrows questioningly, and the other woman explained, "Before he died, Maxim called Michael 'Boromir of Gondor.' I mentioned that Michael remembered his birth name, right? Well, Maxim knew him. Gondor sounds somewhat familiar, but I can't place it." Elena frowned as the two women began walking back to the car. Gondor. She had thought immediately of the bird, then realized that the bird was a 'condor.' Gondor. It was a country or a city of some kind, but generally speaking, people didn't address each other that way any more, and hadn't for at least four or five hundred years.

She said as much to Megan, observing, "You know, people haven't referred to each other by place names in centuries. That's kind of freaky." Megan nodded, her expression best described as 'troubled.' And not just a normal kind of Megan-troubled, either, no. No, she was worried about Michael, worried about this most recent incident involving him. Ugh. Would those two ever stop dancing around their feelings for each other, and just admit that they were the centers of each others' worlds? Not friggin' likely, especially since Megan still refused to admit that Michael chose her. Stubborn little brat, never mind that Megan was a few months older than she was. She was still taller than Megan.

"Yeah, I know. That's what gave me the creeps," Megan admitted, continuing, "He also spoke to Michael in that secret language of Michael and Gavin's." Okay, now that creeped out Elena. She heard them talking in that secret language. Megan continued, "According to Michael, it's called 'Sindarin,' but it isn't the native language of Gondor. I suppose that would be 'Gondorian' or something. Maybe not. Anyhow, I was thinking that once we get back to the precinct, we can check out the databases and files, see if Sindarin, Saruman, or Sauron comes up. I don't have a good feeling about this one, 'Lena. I mean, these two guys come from different parts of the country, and they don't remember anything from the last few days? Not good."

"That makes two of us. But they were as freaked out as anyone, Megan. Jamison kept wanting to go to Tania and apologize. They aren't bad men, they aren't criminals. The sheriff was telling me that they have no physical evidence to tie either man to Maxim's death. His own fingerprints are on the weapon, they have no memory of the attack, and Michael is the only witness. A defense attorney would probably tear him to shreds on the stand," Elena replied. Megan nodded, though her face tightened at the mention of defense attorneys. And Michael was approaching them, himself looking more than a little worried. Yeah. That seemed to be going around these days.

BBBBBBBB

"So it begins."

Her back was to the others, slender white arms folded over her chest as she gazed upon the occurrences in the faraway mortal land of Campbell, North Carolina. She remembered hearing Legolas and Haldir humming a song from the mortal world, something about 'faraway places with strange-sounding names,' and to her, Campbell, North Carolina sounded _very_ strange. A gentle hand came to rest on her shoulder and her mother murmured, "I had not expected this." Celebrian, wife of Elrond, smiled without humor. No, indeed-none of them expected this; even though they knew evil never truly died. It merely took on new forms; sometimes even wearing a beloved face. Regardless. Sauron had returned, and he was seeking his former puppet, Saruman. After a moment, her mother continued, "Even so, now is not the time to intervene."

Celebrian smiled bitterly to herself. No. No, she knew it wasn't time for them to intervene. And right now, Bronwyn wasn't in danger. It was unlikely that she would be in any danger in the near future. She was an advocate for children in the courts. . .it was rare that she accompanied the police if a child was in danger. That was the job of those individuals called 'social workers,' a title she had a hard time understanding. Perhaps she would ask Prince Greenleaf when he returned with Haldir, perhaps he or Haldir would understand why it was called thus.

"Sauron was destroyed at the end of the War of the Ring," Celebrian's son Elrohir observed, "as was the Ring itself. Which begs the question. Is this individual called 'Sauron' a reincarnation or. . .something else?" What else it could be, Celebrian didn't know, but right now, her concern was with the people of Campbell, who had no idea what manner of evil which was coming for them. . .and with her daughter's reincarnation. This new Sauron was already responsible for the death of one man, destroying the lives of two others, and the loss of Tania Petrenko's innocence. Celebrian's heart broke for the little girl, and she was grateful that Boromir was there to protect her.

She thought of her own daughter after Celebrian was attacked, and shuddered. No. No, she wanted none of those memories for little Tania Petrenko. The mortal children of today witnessed enough horrifying sights as they grew up. The only good thing about the current situation was that Tania hadn't really seen anything. Or was that good? Young imaginations could offer up terrible possibilities. Celebrian wished, then, that Tania's family would be able to ease the child's hurt, and remind her that she was not at fault. It was something she was not yet ready to hear. . .but in time, she would be.

Celebrian's gaze slid toward the two guardians who protected Boromir of Gondor over the last year. She never met Boromir, though she heard many tales of the young Captain-General from Legolas in particular, but also from Mithrandir and from Frodo Baggins in the years before the hobbit's death. Still, from what she saw of Boromir since she began watching in her mother's Mirror, she was pleased that he received this second chance. Divested of the terrible responsibilities that rested upon his shoulders during his first life, he truly was Michael, rather than Boromir. The oft-repeated joke between her sons that Megan Rafferty was a most unusual mother to a man nearly a decade older than herself was true, for all that she chastised them for speaking so.

Speaking of which. . . Had Megan Rafferty yet made the connection that Tania Petrenko was the same age as her niece Gemma? Or was she trying to avoid that? Celebrian could hardly blame the town's guardian for not making that connection, deliberately or otherwise. If she acknowledged that Tania and Gemma were the same age, then other connections could be made. . .connections that might get in the way of her ability to protect the people of her town. Later, she would realize, would see, the truth that bound her niece and that sweet little girl, and she would mourn for them both. She would pray that Gemma would never know such trauma. And she would know, without knowing the exact details, that her prayers were in vain. When that realization came, and it would come, it was Celebrian's greatest hope that Boromir would be there to pick up the pieces. And he would be. He always was.

It was often said that one's perception of the world changed when one became a parent, and that was true. However, she learned from watching the humans the same was true when a niece or nephew was added to the family. There was a change in both Megan and Kristin, now knowing that they had a twelve-year-old niece, when they interacted with youngsters of that age. There was an expression that crossed Megan's face, a darkening that Boromir observed, whenever she heard of a child being hurt. Boromir stated that until she learned of Gemma's existence, she never reacted that way. With compassion, certainly, and empathy for that child and the parents of that child, certainly, but there was something new now. A single thought. _That could have been Gemma._

She very much doubted if Megan was even really aware of the changes in herself. But they were there. Boromir noted those changes, as did the retired doctor Ronan Daly (who was, apparently, the reincarnation of Gimli, Gloin's son, of whom both Celebrian and her mother had very fond memories). However, her concerns for Megan would have to wait. The argument that so often brewed between her sons and husband was about to start once more, and no doubt her assistance in mediating would be required.

Over the last seventy mortal years, since the rise of that evil Man Hitler, the twins often argued with their father about going forth into the world of Men, to battle that evil and so many others. Her husband, however, had enough of fighting. He made his choice, eons earlier, between being a Man and one of the First-born. The twins, however, continued to be caught between their natures, and wished to join their friends in the world of Men. Thus far, Elrond's persuasion to remain here and let Men work out their problems alone prevailed. . .but it was only a matter of time before Elrohir and Elladan would leave. And at that time, it would fall to Celebrian to pick up the pieces.

As expected, Elrond reminded the others that they left Middle-earth, now simply called Earth, in the hands of the Men. Hitler, and other monsters like him. . . they were all the responsibility of the race that spawned them. But there was more to it than that. After all, Sauron was one of the Firstborn, and some of the grossest misdeeds in the history of all were committed by the Firstborn. If Sauron was returning to the world of Men, it was their responsibility as the Eldar to join forces with the mortals and contain him, at the very least. It wasn't that Men were incapable of dealing with Sauron. After all, look at what Frodo Baggins did, along with the rest of the Fellowship. However, even if Sauron _was_ a Man in this lifetime, the Elves had partial responsibility for him.

"Sauron, in whatever form he has taken now, is now a Man, and thus, the responsibility of Men. . .yes, Father, we know. But Sauron was once a First-born, which makes him our responsibility," Elladan said, and Celebrian turned, somewhat startled to hear her son speaking her exact thoughts. She almost wished she was still looking into the mirror. Her sons stood shoulder-to-shoulder, fists clenched at their sides. And Elrond. . .her husband simply sighed, looking tired and sad. He offered her a wan smile as she took a step toward him, to comfort him, as Elladan continued, "Regardless. The reincarnations of our sister and our human brother now live in Campbell, as does Boromir of Gondor. That makes it our concern. We have no way of contacting Legolas and Haldir, no way to inform them that Sauron is back in the world, save actually traveling to the mortal world, and Grandmother tells us that it is not yet time to intervene."

"Word will get to Greenleaf and Haldir," Celebrian's mother said serenely, "if they need to know. Celebrian, Bronwyn remembers her past as Arwen. That truth makes her far less vulnerable than Boromir, who still remembers so little." Celebrian inclined her head, accepting that particular truth. Yes, Bronwyn remembered being Arwen, which also meant that she remembered Sauron and Saruman. Though this reincarnation of Celebrian's daughter had no interest in resuming that part of her existence, there was no doubt in Celebrian's mind that Bronwyn would stand beside the others against Sauron. Her mother continued, as if hearing her thoughts, "The same is true of Gavin Rafferty. He may prefer to forget his lifetime as Elessar, may reject that part of Aragorn which is in him, but the memories are there, nonetheless. Regardless of his name, however, he is still a protector. When Gavin learns that Sauron and Saruman have returned, he will find a way to protect Boromir, his town. . ."

"And his sisters," Elrohir pointed out. Celebrian bit back a smile. Yes, it took them very little time indeed for her sons, for all of them, to realize that Megan, and Kristin, Rafferty were Gavin Rafferty's sisters, rather than his cousins. Elrohir continued, "Very well. For now, we will remain here. But someone should be in contact with Legolas and Haldir. Their primary mission is to protect Boromir, and they cannot do that without this information. At the same time, they can be our advance force. We can see through Grandmother's Mirror, but they are actually there."

"There is something everyone is forgetting, including the twins," Glorfindel said quietly, entering the conversation for the first time. All eyes turned toward the Balrog-Slayer, who continued, "The sword used to end Maxim Petrenko's life was a ceremonial one. It was not sharp at all when his son brought it to him and Boromir, meant to be admired or to frighten. But when Sauron's puppets took control of it, the sword slid into his body as if was sharpened yesterday. The bodies of Sauron and his puppets may be flesh. . .but no mortal weapon killed that man. The Firstborn have no choice. We _must_ get involved."

Celebrian heard the phrase used by Men, about their blood running cold. She understood the meaning of that phrase now, as the full import of Glorfindel's words struck her. Of course. She should have seen that for herself. The gifts of the Firstborn were used to kill that man to send a message. . .and that made this situation the responsibility of the Firstborn. There was an uneasy silence as her family considered their options. However, it was Mithrandir who said gravely, "Then contact must be made with Legolas and Haldir immediately. They are already journeying toward Boromir and his guardians."

"Indeed," Celebrian's mother agreed, "and they are the most acquainted with this time and its customs." It was Celebrian's greatest hope that the blonde elleth who appeared when Haldir and Legolas left for the world of Men would get word to them. If not. . .if not, there were other ways. And though she could not yet go to her daughter, at least help was on its way. She only hope it would be enough to save Boromir and those girls.

¹LEO. . .Law enforcement official. . .but I bet you knew that already.

²Believe it or not, small towns have prostitutes, too. . .found that out the hard way in our rural area.

³Abuelito. . .Spanish for 'grandpa.' Abuelita is 'grandma.'


	3. Assembling the Players

Author's Note: Do not attempt to adjust your monitor. . .there is nothing wrong with your CPU. I am actually updating! Short version. . .a nasty, nasty case of writer's block, complicated by my hard drive crashing, being unable to say 'no' to Jack Harkness, and being trapped in a small room for eight hours (no, that's not a joke. Wish it was. Did I mention I'm claustrophobic?). Fortunately for my laptop, our computer hero not only installed a new hard drive, but he also managed to save everything. So. Here we have the next chapter. To the lovely anonymous reviewer. . . thank you so much! I've addressed some of your questions in this chapter (including the issue of what Gavin knows and Boromir's clothing). As to Megan and Boromir finally getting their act together. . . working on it. Megan, however, is genuinely worried that she'd be taking advantage of his inexperience (not that she has much of that herself). They'll get there. . . I don't intend for it to take much longer. Onward and upward, my dears!

Chapter Two

Assembling the Players

_Oh dear Lord, help me keep my sanity! _That was the prayer of Francis Rafferty over the last few hours, ever since his wife got a bee in her bonnet about getting the house 'clean.' As if the house wasn't clean enough already? It was, of course. After nearly forty years of marriage, he knew this wasn't about cleaning, but about working something out in Ailsa's mind. And unfortunately, his car was at the garage for a tune was one escape blocked. He supposed he could retreat to his workshop for a while, but that damn door was creaking again and they were out of WD-40. Another escape blocked. Besides, Ailsa didn't always know her limits and ended up making herself half-sick, so, he would stay. And hopefully, he could keep himself from strangling her from sheer exasperation.

It was a relatively quiet week, so maybe he should have expected this. While Kristin was back at college, Megan came over for dinner the previous night with Boromir, as had Gavin and Reese. That was actually incorrect. . .Megan didn't come over for dinner. She actually made dinner: spaghetti, garlic bread, and salad. Never mind that she generally didn't eat salad, that wasn't the point. She ate salad last night, in no small part because Boromir helped to make it. Francis poked his head into the kitchen when Ailsa's fretting began to get irritating. She was evidently under the impression that Megan would blow up the kitchen if she didn't have one or both parents checking on her.

Francis seriously doubted that, but looked into the kitchen briefly anyhow to put her mind at ease. Not surprisingly, everything was more than fine. Meg was at the stove, boiling water for the pasta and making garlic toast. Boromir was sitting at the table, chopping tomatoes for the salad, and humming something vaguely familiar under his breath. Francis smiled at the memory of Megan teasing Boromir. . .and what the hell was _Mambo Number Five_? Aside from whatever Boromir was humming, of course. He happily reported back that everything was just fine. Well, yes, Reese was being a little brat, but that was par for the course with his grandson. However, there was no danger of Megan or Boromir burning up the kitchen. Or burning down, or however you wanted to put it.

The odd thing was, Ailsa didn't seem to stop fretting when he informed her that everything was fine in the kitchen, and she just picked at the food once dinner was served. Megan carefully didn't look at her, choosing instead to check with the rest of their family about the quality of the food. He didn't think there was an argument between his wife and daughter before hand, so most likely, Megan noticed her mother's unwillingness to eat dinner and didn't want to mention it. Instead, the conversation centered around some of the stranger places where Gavin ate while he was in the Marines. . .to say nothing of the strange _things_ he had eaten.

Reese chimed in with some of the food served at the schools he attended, with Megan adding that institution food was rarely half-decent, regardless of which institution was being discussed. Boromir contributed with the observation that Megan didn't often have the opportunity to cook. She was almost always exhausted when she arrived at the apartment. To help out, he usually heated up TV dinners when she got home, under her supervision, since the microwave hated him. However, he greatly enjoyed those times when she did cook. Megan blushed at that, ducking her head and giving Boromir a sidelong look. Francis really needed to talk to his little girl about that. . .Denethor's son was clearly in love with her, and just as clearly, she was falling in love with him. Stubborn child. Not that he had any room to talk, of course.

He thought about Denethor and his Lady, Finduilas, mother of their two sons. Francis had Denethor's memories, remembered being Denethor (_oh Faramir, I hope you forgave your father. . .for your sake more than his_), but didn't really consider himself to be Denethor. He knew from conversations with his son that Gavin felt the same way about Aragorn. He had Aragorn's memories, he remembered being Aragorn, but he didn't see himself as Aragorn. He was Gavin, and that was more than enough. Yes, Francis thought ruefully, I'm Francis, and that's more than enough.

The phone rang, distracting him from his thoughts about his prior incarnation. Caller ID informed him that it was his middle daughter (oh, it was so good to have Carey released from that quiet room in his heart!). Francis answered lightly, "Hey kiddo, how is your day going?" There was a soft inhale, and as clichéd as it was, Francis was sure he could actually feel his blood running cold in his veins. There was something very, very wrong. He turned and headed into the kitchen, sensing he would need some degree of silence for this particular conversation, and said, "Meggie? Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

"Maxim Petrenko's dead, Dad. He was killed this morning," Megan replied softly. She was in professional mode right now, and while she didn't specify how the old man died, Francis was quite certain that it wasn't a simple accident. She took another breath, continuing, "I can't explain right now, but I need you to contact Gavin for me. Michael. . .he was at the Petrenko place this morning. And that language which he and Gavin speak. . .well, it's involved, too. I've not said anything in the past, Dad, but I've got to know more now. A man is dead, and he might not be the last."

That language which Gavin and Michael spoke. Sindarin. . .or maybe Westron. His own memories for that were somewhat vague, lost in the horror of Denethor's end and the days, weeks, months and years of madness which preceded that death. That didn't matter right now, though. He answered, just as softly, "I'll call him immediately, and have him call you, baby girl. Is there anything else he needs to know?" He had a feeling that he would regret asking that question, and silently prayed that he was wrong.

He wasn't. Megan answered hesitantly, "Yes. . .ask him if the name 'Saruman' rings any bells for him. I have. . .I'm not sure if it's connected to the secret language, but I don't want to run the risk of not following up a potential lead." Francis closed his eyes. Saruman! Oh, Gavin shared the current identity of the former White Wizard with him. However, he wasn't ready to tell his daughter that particular secret. Her world was about to be shaken enough as it was. He agreed to mention that fact to Gavin, responded in kind when his daughter told him that she loved him, then hung up.

Francis Rafferty stared sightlessly out the kitchen window after he hung up the phone. The reprieve was over. . .it was time to go to work. Francis shook his head and began dialing his only son's number. Not surprisingly, it went to voice mail and Francis said hoarsely once the obligatory 'beeeeep' was out of the way, "Gavin, it's me. Call Megan as soon as you can. Sindarin, or Westron, has cropped up in an investigation of hers. We need to start being straight with her." And really, was there anything else to say?

BBBBBBBB

It really wasn't in Megan Rafferty's nature to push confrontations with her family members. Most of the time, she kept her own counsel, choosing to listen whenever her sisters or her cousins were ready to talk about something. But when it came to her profession, about a case she was working, even peripherally, she would make an exception. She didn't know if knowing more about that language would have saved Maxim Petrenko. . .she doubted it. . .but she wasn't about to let anyone else in her town die. Michael didn't have the answers she needed. . .Gavin did. It was possible that her father did, too, but he hadn't spent as much time with Michael.

After asking her father to pass along the message to Gavin, she closed the phone with her chin and handed it to Elena, who rode quietly in her passenger seat. Her partner and friend slid the phone into her purse, saying softly, "You think it would make a difference?" Megan shrugged. She didn't know. There was a lot she didn't know about any of this, but she at least knew where to start getting answers. And she really didn't like dragging her father into this, but she had a feeling he was already involved. Elena asked next, "Are you all right?"

"Are you?" Megan returned neatly, catching Michael's eye in the rear view mirror. He kept glancing back and forth between her and Elena, looking confused. That, in turn, confused her. . .until she realized that she and her partner were speaking Spanish. Elena came to the same conclusion at the same time, and the two friends smiled at each other ruefully. Switching back to English, Megan told her friend, "The more information we have, the less likely we are to make a stupid mistake. I'm just sorry that Dad was dragged into this situation. . .at least, any more than he already is. And to repeat my question. . .are you all right?" Yes, they were going through this again, but. . .

"Different situation, like I said. I'm fine, Megan. I would say stop worrying about me, but that's akin to asking the tides to stop," Elena replied with a teasing smile. Megan returned the grin, noticing Michael relaxing in the back seat. He hated not knowing what was being said. . .it was too much like when he was learning English. She could relate to that feeling, entirely too well. There were times when Gavin spoke to his son in a language he swore was Welsh, or Cymru, as he called it. Megan still wasn't sure where he learned it. Elena called over her shoulder, "We need to teach you Spanish, Michael. Then you won't feel so left out when we forget to speak English."

"Let me progress further with English first, Elena, and then we'll discuss the chances of teaching me Spanish. . .or any other language, for that matter. I realize there are some who speak several languages, but for now, I think three will suffice me," Michael said dryly. Megan grinned at him in the rearview mirror and he winked at her. Huh. When did he learn to do that? Well, it was hard to say he hadn't always known how to do that, given that she had known him for less than a year, but she just never saw him wink at anyone before. Strange. She would worry about that later. Elena huffed, seemingly in irritation, but her smile said otherwise. Michael continued, "What happens now? I've never actually seen you working, after all."

Elena burst out laughing and Megan rolled her eyes. Oh, for crying out loud. . .! Michael glared at her partner, adding, "That is not how I meant it! I have walked a patrol with her, Elena, during the festivals and fairs. However, I have never witnessed her working a case as a detective. _That_ is what I meant." Elena sulked at that, and Megan bit her lip to keep from laughing. Elena spent too much time around her nieces and nephews. On the other hand, when Elena was behaving like this, she knew her friend was truly all right. After a moment, Michael continued, returning to the previous subject, "On the other hand, at least now I know how you feel when Gavin and I, or Ronan and I, speak the old language. Either of them."

"Michael, querido, you already knew how that felt. . .when you understood no English at all. If anything, we were reminded whenever you and Gavin ever speak the old language. But I take your point," Elena pointed out. She nobly ignored Megan's snickering, and went on, "The sheriff told me that since their jail is still. . .out of commission, he'll make a request of Captain Anders to put our two brainwashed perps in ours. He also wanted us to know that if we needed any additional security during the Robeson trial, he's more than happy to help out. Seems he has a daughter about the same age as Bethany."

Megan's smile faltered a little as she raised her eyes to the rearview mirror. Bethany. The poor girl whose torture and murder started their journey to retrieve Michael nearly a year earlier. You never truly forgot those whom you couldn't save, for whatever reason. But as the months passed, and the Lawsons thanked her and Elena time and again for everything that they had done for the grieving family, it became easier for Megan to let go of her guilt. The sorrow would never go away, the grief that a beautiful, brilliant girl was dead long before she should have been. . .but it was easier to live with now.

Michael asked softly, "It was Bethany's death that led to your trip to Raleigh, was it not?" Both Megan and Elena nodded, and Michael continued, "I thought so. I know you've spoken often about preparing for her murderer's trial. And I am told that a scholarship fund is being set up in her name, for people who wish to attend institutions of higher learning but cannot afford it. She will live on forever now. So long as that scholarship exists, so long as people remember her name, she will live on." Megan smiled, delighted by this observation. She hadn't heard about the scholarship, but she couldn't argue with Michael's statement. However, he wasn't finished, adding, "I would suggest that long after her murderer's name is forgotten, Bethany's will be remembered."

"I think you're right, Michael. Speaking of our trip to Raleigh last year, Meg. . .what happened to the clothes Michael was found in?" Elena asked. Well, that came out of left field! Elena continued, "I was thinking. . .hush, not a word out of you, lady! I was thinking that the local SCA chapter might want a look at his clothes. . .might help them out." There was a long silence as Megan mulled that over, and then Elena pointed out, quite practically, "Besides. If it's been fixed, he might want to wear it again, the next time we attend a Renaissance Faire."

"Ronan had the clothes, the last time I remember hearing. He mentioned wanting to have it fixed and cleaned. I dunno, Michael. . .would you want those clothes back, would you want the clothes you almost died in?" Megan asked thoughtfully, flicking on the turn signal as the turn-off to Campbell proper approached. Michael was silent for several moments as he considered her question. Megan eased into the proper lane and veered up onto the ramp. Even as Michael considered the question of his former clothes, Megan's mind returned to what they knew about Maxim Petrenko's murder. . .which was painfully little. Oh yeah. This would definitely be a weird one. There was very little question about that. And she really hated that her family was going to be pulled into this. Dalton Robeson made threats against her family and against Elena's, but that was. . .not to be expected, but not all that unexpected, either. However, this. . .this was something else entirely, and Megan wondered how to handle whatever Gavin had to say.

However, that would wait until later. Michael said at last, speaking a bit slowly as he continued to think things through, "I think. . .I think I would want them back. Yes, as you say, Megan, I almost died in those clothes. . .but they were mine. Once they are fixed and cleaned, I do think I want those back. Should I say something to Ronan?" Megan shrugged. Actually, she thought it was more likely that Ronan would mention something to them once the clothes were fixed and cleaned, and told her male passenger exactly that. Like Michael said, they were still his, in a way that his newer clothes couldn't be. Michael, she suspected, wore those clothes every day for the previous twenty years of his life. They suited him, really.

That question would be put aside. Megan returned her attention to the road and to the murder investigation, her mind continuing to spin around everything they had learned so far. They had a lot of work to do. And she still wasn't sure where they should even start. Saruman? Gondor? When it was all over, she had a feeling she would end up knowing more than she was ready to know about Michael's past. After that, she would have to figure out how to handle that knowledge. First things first: solve Maxim's murder. Everything else after was. . .icing.

BBBBBBBB

Across town, Jason Wellington had absolutely no clue that his life was about to turn upside down, inside out, and completely ass-backwards. . .much less that it would take that harrowing turn because of a man he only met once or twice during the years he had lived in Campbell. Oh, of course there were the usual distractions. . .they were coming upon a particularly painful time of year for him and Natalie. It was the anniversary of the day his wife walked out on them, and his little girl was acting out as a result. He knew that. . .he remembered doing the exact same thing as a teenager, after he lost his parents. That reminded him, it was time for his yearly apology to his grandfather, for being such a selfish little prat both then and when his grandfather tried to warn him that Natalie's mother would end up breaking his heart into microscopic pieces.

There was also the matter of the MBB, who were still causing trouble. It astonished him when he thought about it, but even now, so long after their queen bee found herself on the wrong end of a snub, those old biddies were still trying to cause trouble for people. More worrisome, they would probably be causing trouble even when all hell was breaking loose. Jason often wondered if he should feel sorry for them, if their lives were that empty. However, his exasperation, aggravation, and frustration (along with just about any other 'ation' he could think of) usually won out over any pity.

In other words, he was working himself into a world-class strop (or, as they said more locally, a hissy fit), and doing everything he could to avoid that, trying to focus on the good things in his life right now, rather than the things that annoyed him (and for some unknown reason, that second list was getting longer and longer every damn day). His business was going well, for which he was incredibly grateful, and Grandfather asked him last night (rather shyly, for him) how Jason felt about his 'old grandfather behaving like a young fool and courting a lady.'

He was more than a bit nonplussed, but once he figured out that his grandfather was thinking of courting one of the Grande Dames, Jason was all for it. His grandfather had been alone, aside from Jason and Natalie, ever since Jason's grandmother died. . .and that was before Jason was born. Life was too bloody short as it was, so why shouldn't his grandfather find someone? He went above and beyond the call of duty as a grandfather, raising first Jason and then helping to raise Natalie. . .why shouldn't he be happy?

There was no reason in the world, and Jason staunchly told his grandfather that he had his full and unconditional support. And he did, he truly did. Jason just. . .well, he would like some female companionship as well, preferably sometime before he approached his nineties. He felt a little guilty for these darker emotions, especially since his first marriage was such a spectacular disaster. And he adored his daughter, he truly did, but she was just a little girl. His grandfather had his dogs, which admittedly weren't human, but still. It was the idea of the thing.

He shook his head. No. No, if his marriage taught him anything, it was that he was better off without a wife. He had his grandfather, he had Natalie, he had his business, and that was all he needed. Jason was a lousy husband, or so he thought in his darker moods, and it was best not to inflict himself on another poor woman who would leave the East Coast to get away from him (although his mental voice advised him to lose the self-pity). Focus on being a good father, a good grandson, and doing right by his (ever-growing number of) clients. If something else was meant to happen, it would. Don't go looking for trouble. It usually found them anyhow.

Needless to say, his attempts to ward off a strop were going severely awry and he was already in a dark mood when the phone in his den rang. It was on the house line, and Jason wondered briefly why no one answered it yet. Then he understood, or rather, remembered. Natalie was in school, and Grandfather was meeting with the mayor for breakfast. Dammit! Jason nearly threw the pen across the room. Instead, he picked it up and said as calmly as he could, "Good morning, Wellington Consulting, this is Jason Wellington, how can I help you today?"

"Jason, this is Dr. Daly. . .how are you today, lad?" came the genial voice of the retired Irish doctor. Jason smiled. He didn't know Dr. Daly very well, certainly not as well as Gavin Rafferty or his cousins did, but he liked the other man very much. On the other hand, he didn't know the Rafferty family all that well, either. It was a well-known secret around town that the older man was involved with Dr. Arabella Trask, the local coroner.

Personally, Jason hated calling her that. A woman as stunning as Elly Trask shouldn't be called something so. . .well, it just wasn't right. Yes, he knew, she chose that path, but it still seemed wrong to him. Not that he would ever say so to her. And he was being rude to his caller. Jason returned the greeting, and Dr. Daly continued, "I know it's short notice, but can you meet me at Mindy's place? I was supposed t' meet Elly, but she was called away for a new case."

"Uhm. . .how soon?" Jason asked, already mentally figuring out at what point he could stop on his current project. Truthfully, he could leave now. . .he really hadn't made much headway, thanks in large part to his darkening mood. So that wouldn't be an issue. Natalie wouldn't be home until three or three thirty, several hours away, and Grandfather would just need a quick note once he returned from his meeting with the mayor. Thanks to his business, the school knew to call his cell phone if there were any emergencies with Natalie, rather than the house line.

"Whenever you can make it, lad, whenever you can make it. I had an idea about one of the rooms in the clinic, but wanted t' make sure it wouldn't compromise the integrity of the entire structure. And fancy that, we have our very own freelance engineer in town!" Ronan crowed. Jason couldn't help but laugh at the older man's tone. Ronan chuckled as well, explaining, "I figured since I would be gettin' your expert advice for free, the least I could do was invite you t' brunch and pay for it."

He only needed a few minutes to think about that, before saying, "I'd love to. Mindy's, you said?" Ronan agreed, and Jason continued, "All right, I'll meet you there in twenty minutes. I've been hearing about that neighbor of Megan's, the elderly German lady, and her cooking. Rumor has it that she supplies some of the pastries at Mindy's." And she supposedly made VERY good pastries, cookies, and all things sweet. Jason didn't like to admit to anyone, except his grandfather, but he had one helluva sweet tooth. He didn't dare mention that fact to Natalie, much less at this particular point in time.

"Rumor, in this case, is most definitely true. . .and if I were about twenty years older, I would most assuredly ask her to marry me. As it is, I'm seeing a woman twenty years younger than myself," Ronan answered, sounding more than a touch sheepish. Jason bit back a grin. Yes, he could imagine. On the other hand, Elly was. . .well, Elly. Ronan went on, a touch of awe in his voice, "Do you know what she said, the first time I asked her out? I told her that I would be honored to be her escort, and she told me, 'the honor is all mine.' Can you imagine that?"

"I can't imagine how she would say anything else, Doctor. I need to finish this up and change, I'll see you at Mindy's in twenty minutes," Jason replied. He supposed what we was currently wearing was okay, but. . .he was taught that work clothes weren't always appropriate for restaurants. And since he worked in sweats if he wasn't meeting with clients or prospective clients. . .ah, no. Slacks and a sweater would be it. Ronan agreed, twenty minutes at Mindy's, and the two men hung up.

The front door imploded inward as Jason rose to his feet, and he halted, hearing his grandfather swearing in several different languages. Oooh, this didn't sound good. Jason reversed course and headed into the front room. His grandfather was in a rare state, which worried Jason. While he often argued with Thomas Farrell, he genuinely liked the mayor, even as he confided to Jason that there was something oddly familiar about the younger man. Jason asked, leaning against the door jam, "Grandfather? I didn't think your meeting with the mayor would go that badly."

"Hullo, Jason. No, my meeting with Tom went fine. No. I just got a call I really didn't want. Everything's fine, I just needed to vent. You heading out?" his grandfather asked and Jason nodded. The grandson proceeded to explain about the phone call he received from Ronan Daly just a few minutes earlier, concluding with the older man's offer for brunch. His grandfather was smiling as he said, "Go, have fun. . .Lord knows you don't have enough of it. I know it's that time of year again, Jason, and before you say it, you don't owe me an apology. You were a hurt child. Besides. I wouldn't trade the last twenty-five years for anything, including those first awkward weeks. You and Natalie are my life. So go. Have fun."

"Are you sure you're okay, Grandfather?" Jason questioned softly. He was startled when his grandfather's hands came up to frame his face, something he hadn't done since Jason finished college. Jason repeated, "Grandfather?" However, the older man said nothing: simply pressed a gentle kiss to Jason's forehead and smiled at him tenderly. He was seriously freaking Jason out, and the young man asked, "Are you sure? I can stay, you know. I'm not supposed to meet Ronan for another twenty minutes, or I could call back and say something has come up."

"You'll do no such thing, Jason Ignatius," his grandfather chided and Jason flushed at the use of his hated middle name. Grandfather continued, "You will go get changed, you will meet Dr. Daly at Mindy's, and you are going to enjoy yourself. I am fine. Yes, I received some bad news. Yes, I'm worried about what comes next. But I will not have you, or Natalie, putting your lives on hold for me. All right?" Jason nodded numbly, still deeply worried by his grandfather's uncharacteristic behavior, and the other man kissed his forehead again, telling him, "Go, my dear child. Get ready."

Jason did as he was told, ignoring the instincts that told him that he should stay. He would wonder, much later, if he could have altered events. . .if staying would have made a difference. But that was information he didn't have available, and so, he left his grandfather to change into more appropriate clothes, and then left for his meeting with Ronan Daly. He didn't see his grandfather watching him worriedly from the kitchen window, hands clasped together as if in prayer.


	4. Reinforcements

Author's Note: Hello, hello, hello! Before I get started, as a Tar Heel, I gotta mention the winner of this year's _American Idol_, Scotty McCreery, from Garner, NC (that's about an hour from me). We're very proud of him, even those of us who don't normally pay attention to _American Idol _(like my family and me). Okay, duty as a Tar Heel done. The holidays are coming upon us, so whatever holiday you celebrate (Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, Winter Solstice), I hope it's a wonderful one. I'm relieved to say that I have all gifts bought except two. Oh, and this is singularly appropriate. . .the local news just had a piece on a gentleman in West Chester, PA who has created his very own hobbit house. How awesome is that? I've also started a new policy wherein, if I have at least nine pages in a chapter, I'll go ahead and post the chapter, rather than waiting for twelve or fifteen or eighteen. Hopefully, that will help with posting (crossing fingers). Onward and upward!

Chapter Three

Reinforcements

His day began so well. Perhaps that should have been his first indication that things would go so spectacularly wrong later. Admittedly, he didn't _enjoy_ taking the car to the garage, but it was a necessary inconvenience. . .especially if he wished to continue driving. And, he had to admit, the waiting room of Josiah's garage was rather entertaining on this particular morning. On any given day, you could hear a wide variety of conversations. This morning, only a few minutes after he arrived, a young woman brought her car in. . .and found herself in the company of a rather garrulous older woman. He daren't call her _old_, as she was at least twenty years younger than he. The young lady was evidently raised to honor older people, because she valiantly tried to take part in the conversation, but quickly gave up. The other woman wasn't interested in someone to converse _with_. . . simply someone to talk _at_.

As the girl left, he rose to his feet and opened the door for her, whispering softly, "Your compassion and courtesy does your parents credit." That simple act won him a bright, grateful smile. He was approaching ninety, but as his grandson was fond of reminding him, he wasn't dead yet. And a woman's smile could always make his heart turn over, especially if that smile reminded him of his late wife. The girl did remind him of his wife, and not simply because his beloved would have listened to that woman. Of course, with her previous partner gone, Lucius was the woman's next victim. Ah, well. There were worse ways to spend forty-five minutes. At last, his car was ready and he journeyed onto his next appointment.

That next appointment was his breakfast meeting with Mayor Farrell, and contrary to popular belief among those who knew about the breakfast meetings, the pair rarely talked about politics. And even further contrary to popular belief, it was rare that Mayor Farrell talked about politics outside of City Hall, if he could help it. Oh, there were always citizens who questioned him about policies when he was out and about, but they always approached him, rather than the other way around. It stood to reason, especially when he had to deal with those overgrown children on the Town Council. On occasion, they discussed religion, as Tom Farrell was a lifelong Catholic, while Lucius Wellington was a lapsed member of the Church of England.

But most of the time, they talked about their children and, during this particular breakfast, about the jobs they held during the course of their lives. Lucius was somewhat jealous to learn that Tom earned money as a teenager by picking fruit on farms, while Tom winced when he realized that Lucius lied about his age to enlist in the Second World War. _That_, Tom observed, _was one helluva first job_. And Lucius had to agree, choosing not to tell the younger man about the other wars he fought. Nor did he tell him about the years he spent after the war, hunting Nazis who escaped justice. There were just some things he wasn't ready to share, even with a man who had to make difficult decisions on a regular basis. He couldn't even share that with his beloved grandson.

It was then that the police captain called the mayor on his mobile, informing him of the murder of a Russian immigrant to the United States, one Maxim Petrenko. That was always tragic, of course, but it was hardly earth-shattering. Truly, he would have thought nothing more of it; however, he learned through what reporters called 'unofficial' sources that there was far more to the situation than anyone else guessed. Further, those unofficial sources would remain anonymous, because of a call he received on his own mobile. Very little was said. . .very little needed to be said. '_We are coming for you next_.' It took very little imagination and a great deal of memory to understand exactly whom 'we' was. By the same token, he realized that he couldn't go to the police with this. They dealt with the mundane and the practical, not with the supernatural. More to the point, they weren't trained to deal with the supernatural.

And that was where he was now, watching his grandson leave the house to meet with Ronan Daly and praying that the reincarnation of Gimli could help him protect Jason and Natalie from what was to come. Oh, he knew that Gimli, Gloin's son, had no reason in the world to help him, any more Aragorn's reincarnation or Boromir did. But he believed, with all his heart, that those three men wouldn't allow two innocents to suffer because of Saruman's many crimes. Saruman might have taken vengeance by way of Jason and Natalie, but Ronan, Boromir, and Gavin were not like Saruman.

Even so, that was a small comfort to him. Ringwraiths. The Ringwraiths were back and Lucius would be in their sights. Ringwraiths possessed the bodies of two innocent men and then used them to kill Maxim Petrenko, while the still-amnesiac son of Gondor's Steward watched in horror. Oh, he hadn't been simply watching. . .he was also shielding the man's great-granddaughter at the same time. But, Ringwraiths. Lucius shuddered at the idea of those things here, now.

For where the Ringwraiths were, Sauron wasn't far behind. Lucius never believed that Sauron was truly gone, completely destroyed. He would have liked to believe that was the case, but experience and time taught him otherwise. Besides, energy was never truly destroyed. . .it merely took other forms. He just hoped that their paths would never cross again. The part of him which was Saruman quailed at the thought of facing the Dark Lord, but Lucius stood up to other Dark Lords during his current life, including that evil little man who was ultimately responsible for the deaths of millions of people, Adolf Hitler.

He wasn't unafraid, no. Of course he was afraid. . .only fools were unafraid, and he wasn't a fool. But he tried not to allow his fear gain control of him. That was how Sauron worked, of course, and Lucius wasn't the same man who once fell under Sauron's sway. Literally, he wasn't the same man. He smirked a little, which died away. They were coming for him. . .which meant they were also coming for Jason and Natalie. And that would not be permitted. Lucius lost his wife and his son. He would not allow his sins, or the sins of his past self, to destroy his relationship with his grandson or destroy the boy himself. Not again. Never again.

_So come for me_, _if you dare, Sauron_, Lucius thought_, but if you harm my grandson and great-granddaughter, that will be the very last mistake you make! _And to make sure he could carry out that threat, Lucius began making plans. He would start with learning what he could once Jason got home from his meeting with Ronan Daly, but he would also need to contact Gavin Rafferty. Lucius had the sense that the retired Marine's younger sister would be part of the coming battle, simply by virtue of her relationship with Boromir. And of course he knew that Megan and Kristin were Gavin's sisters, rather than his cousins. . .the only ones who didn't know were the girls themselves. Not important. The only thing that was important was protecting Jason and Natalie.

BBBBBBBBBB

Oooh, on a scale of one to ten, this was a fifteen on the 'bad idea' scale. But it seemed like the smart thing to do at the time, especially since it meant making one trip into town, rather than two. There was a municipal job open and since she had to go into Campbell proper to deposit her mother's check, it made sense to kill two birds with one stone. The visit to the bank went well. . .the tellers and receptionist had known her since she was a child, and her mother made sure she had everything she would need. Of course, once she got to the municipal building, things went horribly awry. Of course. What else would she expect, the way things had been going lately?

While she grew up in Campbell, so much changed in the time she was away. And since she returned, she spent very little time around the municipal building and the police department. So maybe it wasn't so surprising when she got lost after dropping off her job application with the human resources office and headed back to her car. She spent the next ten minutes wandering around the parking lot for that car. During her fourth pass, a Jeep pulled up alongside her and a young woman smiled out at her, saying, "Can I help you?" She hesitated, but the woman (who was about her own age) continued, "I'm a police detective and I noticed you wandering around. Is everything okay?"

For the first time, she realized how it must have looked and she flushed, just a little. But the other woman's smile was reassuring and she explained, "I can't find my car. I know the next parking lot over is for police officers, but. . ." The detective blinked and she realized she was more lost than she realized. It was colder than normal today, but right now, her face was burning with embarrassment. And for the second time in the last few minutes, the detective (who was she, she looked vaguely familiar) came to her rescue.

"That's on the other side of the building, and a long walk. Why don't I give you a ride over?" she suggested. A quick glance inside the Jeep demonstrated that she had a radio inside the car, lending credence to her claim that she was a police detective. And it was cold out here and. . .she nodded quickly, and then slipped inside the Jeep.

Once she was inside, she found herself not just warming up, but relaxing. However, embarrassment, as it so often did for her, loosened her tongue, as she explained, "I've been out of work for several months. . .came to the municipal building, 'cause I knew there was a job opening. I'd forgotten that there was a parking lot on either side of the municipal building and police department, so when I came out, I went the wrong way. How long has that new parking lot been there?"

"About three years, give or take. You just came back to Campbell?" the detective asked. Lorelle nodded and the detective made a noise in the back of her throat, murmuring, "Job market's tough right now, and from what I've been hearing, that's becoming true throughout the country. A school friend of mine just got a job at the Castle after years of making do with odd jobs and help from friends. . .it got tougher after her daughter was born." Lorelle knew what she meant by the Castle. . .everyone did who grew up in Campbell. . .and the detective went on as she smoothly guided her Jeep out onto the street, "So, what kind of car am I looking for?"

"It's a 1999 white Saturn. She's been good to me, got me across country from California," Lorelle explained. She braced herself for the inevitable questions that seemed to follow the revelation that she lived in California. . .especially if she also revealed that she lived there for more than fifteen years. The detective smiled unexpectedly, but said nothing as she turned again into the parking lot. . .and now things looked much more familiar. Lorelle shook her head in disgust. She knew something didn't look right when she got to the parking lot where the detective found her, but couldn't quite figure out why. She muttered, "That was really _not_ one of my smarter moves. . .oh, there she is."

"Don't worry about it. . .can happen to anyone. I can't tell you the number of times it happened after the new parking lot first opened. Just past the Durango?" the detective asked and Lorelle nodded, relaxing further at the sight of her beloved car, which was right now like seeing an old friend. The detective eased the car to a halt, adding, "Good luck on the job." Lorelle smiled back at the detective, thanking her for the well-wishes and for the ride, and slipped out of the car. It was only after she got into her Saturn that she realized that she never asked the detective for her name or her badge number.

The police detective circled around the parking lot before heading back to the street. Going back out on patrol? Maybe. Lorelle shook her head and withdrew her cell phone from her purse. She dialed her mother's number and on the second ring, Mom answered. Lorelle said, "Hey, it's me. . .got the money put in the bank and the application dropped off. Forgot there are two parking lots. . .no, a police detective noticed me wandering around like a little lost puppy dog and was kind enough to give me a ride to the other parking lot. She's around my age, dark hair and eyes, drives a Jeep. Real nice girl. Didn't get her name or her badge number."

"Sounds like it was probably Megan Rafferty. . .she was a few years behind you in school," Mom replied. Yeah, the name didn't ring a bell and Lorelle was always more concerned with the upperclassmen, rather than the underclassmen. Mom continued, "She's Sayre's granddaughter. . .the older one, that is. Her parents adopted a little Korean girl when Meggie was twelve, named her Kristin. I knew she made detective and that some of Sayre's old rivals were trying to make her life difficult."

Lorelle rolled her eyes. Honestly, she had to wonder if some people ever grew up. And, she found she didn't mind her mother knowing so much about Lorelle's unexpected rescuer. There was a time when that would have driven her insane. Her mother hadn't changed since she left Campbell, but Lorelle herself had, in ways she was still discovering. And she did remember Miss Sayre, who always gave the best candy during Halloween. She also had vague memories of Miss Sayre's granddaughter, who just rescued her from wandering around a cold parking lot.

"Stupid people. And I bet she'd still risk her life to save any one of them, if she's willing to rescue me from my own stupidity. Well, unless there's something else you need me to pick up, I'm on my way home," Lorelle told her mother. She did something very unlike herself in that moment. She began pulling out of her parking space, while she was still on her cell. Lorelle had a near miss several years earlier and now refused to drive and talk on her cell or text while driving. But there was something that made her very uneasy, and she wanted to go home.

"No, baby, that's everything. Come on home and drive careful. There's a full moon and you know people go nuts when that happens," her mother replied. Supposedly, that was an old wives tale, but Lorelle's experience told her just the opposite. . .full moons brought out the crazy in people, and there was already enough crazy in the world, so far as she was concerned. She hung up the cell after saying good-bye to her mother, focusing only on her driving.

Off to the right, standing on the corner, were three beings who watched Lorelle in anticipation. They weren't men, although they were once. Lorelle would never, ever know how close she came to joining them. . .that she would have joined them, quite against her will, if she hadn't followed her instincts in that critical second. Lorelle Hollister was saved from being taken by the Ringwraiths. . .someone else would not be quite as lucky.

BBBBBBBBB

"You're late," Elena greeted her partner as she ducked inside her partner's car, a bag of food in each hand. Twenty-five minutes earlier, Megan dropped her off at Lady J's to get lunch while she dropped Michael off. It should have only taken fifteen minutes to get to Megan's apartment and come back. Megan merely rolled her eyes, tucking the bags of food into one of her 'saddlebags,' as she called them, and motioned to Elena to close the damn door already.

"I got sidetracked. I swung by the precinct and there was one of the upperclassmen from when we were in school wandering around. She just returned to Campbell and didn't know about the new parking lot. . .got turned around when she left the municipal building, so I gave her a ride to the proper parking lot. And how long have you actually been waiting?" Megan inquired. Elena sniffed. That wasn't the point. Megan snickered and eased out of the parking lot. She continued, "So, I haven't heard back from Gavin, but I'm not expecting to hear from him for a few hours. I don't know about you, 'Lena, but this case has me more than a little itchy."

"Yeah, that makes two of us," Elena replied, virtuously avoiding commenting how adding a 'b' to the beginning of that word could. . .get them both into trouble. She added, "What about Michael, is he okay?" She knew that Meg was worried about her because of her abuelito's death, but she was actually more worried about Michael. Whatever possessed those men, they knew Michael's true name and they knew where he was from. That did not bode well at all.

"I convinced him to stay with Nico and Mrs. Watkins. Didn't exactly fight fair, either, when I suggested that Mrs. Watkins might need his protection. And I doubt if even Nico could stop whatever is behind this, but I don't want Michael to be alone and I know Mrs. Watkins feels better having him there," Megan replied. Elena blinked at her friend, a little surprised at Megan's rather blatant manipulation. However, any attempts to tease her friend went bye-bye at the look in Megan's eyes as she added softly, "I'll do what I have to, to protect him."

"I know, querida," Elena said softly, "I know." She also knew that Megan cared far more for Michael than she thought she should. . .and that Michael reciprocated her feelings. Further, she had a feeling that Michael would need to ignite. . .things. . . between them. Megan still believed that Michael needed more time and more female friends before he could be sure that he felt the same about her. Elena knew better. However, she also knew how stubborn her friend could be, and that right now, Megan needed to focus on the case at hand. Even though the case wasn't technically theirs, they were involved.

Megan was silent as she navigated through the streets of their home town, before finally saying, "Okay, let's take things from the top. What we know: two men arrived at the home of Maxim Petrenko. That is a fact. What is also a fact is that Maxim Petrenko was killed with his own ceremonial sword, almost instantly. Yet, that sword wasn't even close to being sharp. It should have been like being killed with a dull spoon. Fact number three, the two men knew Michael's true name and spoke in a long-dead language which only Michael, Maxim, and my cousin know."

Elena nodded, seeing where her partner was going with this, and put in, "What we've been told is that the two men don't remember any of this. Maybe they don't, but maybe they do. . .we can't see inside their heads, although we might want to suggest testing for drugs. Oh, and don't forget that Michael has said that Ronan Daly knows this long-dead language." Megan inclined her head in acknowledgment, remembering the conversation earlier in the day, after they left the Petrenko farm, and Elena continued, "We'll need more information once the techs finish with their part of the job, but at the moment, we don't have a lot to go on."

"Not entirely true, 'Lena. Once we get back to our desks, I wanna do searches on 'Sauron' and 'Gondor' and 'Saruman' and 'Sindarin.' It might get interesting, since I'm not even sure how to spell any of those, but I'll see what we can find. Michael told us that the message was that Sauron wanted his servant Saruman to return to his side, which indicates to me a cult of some kind, with Sauron being a deity. I could be wrong, but for some reason, I doubt that this 'Saruman' was a house servant. Once I hear from Gavin, we'll put that in. Have you talked to the captain?" Megan asked and Elena nodded. She called their captain while she was waiting for her partner.

"I told her what we knew, and she asked if you put in a call to Gavin yet. I told her '_yes_' and that you were waiting to hear back from him. She said that's fine, and that our two brainwashed or possessed perps will be transferred to our jail," Elena replied. Megan hummed a little under her breath and Elena asked, "You don't believe that they were possessed, do you?" Megan didn't answer at first, as she pulled into the precinct parking lot. As they made their turn, Elena saw three people standing on the corner. She shivered as icy fingers trailed down her spine. That itchy feeling Megan mentioned just got a helluva lot stronger. She blinked, and when she opened her eyes once more, those three were gone. She shuddered, and hoped Megan didn't notice. There were some questions she simply wasn't ready to answer.

"I don't know what to think, 'Lena. Can I buy that they were brainwashed? That's plausible, but from what I remember about psych class, people cannot be brainwashed to act contrary to their core personality. Do I believe in possession? Well, so far as that goes, it doesn't matter what I believe, 'cause it won't hold up in court. Is it a possibility? At this point, just about anything is a possibility. But I can tell you this: if those two really were innocent businessmen who were brainwashed, then whoever did it is damn powerful. . .frighteningly so," Megan replied.

With that, Elena couldn't argue. The conversation was temporarily benched while Megan pulled into her parking space. The partners grabbed their lunches and headed inside once the Jeep was locked up. On the sidewalk, Megan added, "I'd swear I've seen those three people on the corner before." Her voice was very soft, as if she didn't want anyone else to hear what she was saying. Elena's blood ran cold and Megan glanced at her, asking, "You saw them, too?" Elena nodded.

"I saw them, too. Felt like someone walked over my grave," she said quietly. Megan simply nodded slowly. Well, at least Elena wasn't the only one who was feeling itchier. Normally, she really didn't care what people thought of her, but between this new case and the whole mess surrounding Bethany's death the previous year, she knew there was a better than even chance that if she wasn't careful, people would think she was cracking up. And she wasn't entirely sure they were wrong. Keeping that in mind, Elena added, "Do we tell anyone else about this?"

"I think we should tell the captain that our instincts are screaming at us to proceed with caution. She may not understand itchy feelings, but she will definitely trust instincts. Also, there's no reason why we shouldn't tell her that we noticed three people loitering on the far corner of the parking lot. At least, I saw three people. . .did you?" Megan inquired. Elena nodded, feeling a bit better. Her partner added soberly, "I've got a really bad feeling about this entire case, 'Lena. I really do."

"That makes two of us, querida. In fact, I'd be very surprised if Captain Anders doesn't have a very bad feeling, based on the information we all have at this point. This looks to be a very, very strange case," Elena replied. Her cousins in New York often shook their heads over Elena's desire to stay in her hometown, thinking she had to be bored out of her head. If only they knew. Even in a small town, there was plenty of work to be done. She would even venture to say that there was just as much to do, with fewer resources. Elena hadn't gotten a believable response to that statement yet.

"Lather, rinse, repeat. . .I'd be very surprised if anyone working this case doesn't have a bad feeling after what we heard at the Petrenko farm. Rational explanations have their place, but right now, I'm not sure if there are any rational explanations. And you don't know how badly that freaks me out. You know, on the way over, I was thinking about the best way to accomplish this. What do you think, one of us checks on information for our two perps while the other runs the names down?" Megan suggested. Elena needed just a minute to think about that, and then nodded. That sounded like the best way to divide the labor between them.

"Works for me. But lunch first?" Elena asked and Megan nodded emphatically. It was understood between the two that Megan would take care of running the names through the system, while Elena took care of finding more information on the perps. And if Elena cast one last worried look around before they went inside the police station, no one could really blame her. The last time either of the partners got an itchy feeling, the last time any of the detectives in Campbell got that itchy feeling, it was right before Bethany's murder. . .and the town was still reeling from that.

BBBBBBBB

"We must go to North Carolina immediately, Legolas," Haldir said quietly, appearing just as quietly in the doorway to the room which was designated as a computer room in this particular house.

Legolas looked up from the computer, annoyed at the interruption. . .annoyance that quickly turned to concern when he beheld Haldir's expression. The other Elf, normally so stoic, looked deeply worried and before Legolas could question his friend, Haldir explained, "I just received a communiqué from Lady Galadriel. . .the Ringwraiths have returned. And where they are, Sauron cannot be far behind. A life has already been lost, just this morning, and under circumstances that led to the Peredhel twins leaving Valinor. I do not need to tell you that Boromir and his protectors are in grave danger."

And yet, he just did. However, Legolas didn't point this out, knowing that it would only annoy Haldir. Instead, he replied, "How soon can you get your necessities together?" Haldir's thin smile was the only answer he needed. His friend was ready, which meant Legolas needed to finish this email and then they could leave. The prince observed, "I shall join you as soon as this. . .no. No, I should send an email to Ronan as well, let him know that we're on our way. This is sooner than I planned, sooner than I wished, but Boromir will have need of us."

"Quite," Haldir answered, "my belongings are loaded. I will notify Lady Galadriel that we will leave within the hour. By my calculations, we should arrive early tomorrow morning. . .unless you prefer to take the rail. It will take slightly less time." Legolas needed but a moment to think that through, and then he nodded his agreement to the second idea. Yes, they would take the rail. When he emailed Ronan, that would be one of the requests he made. . .that the retired doctor meet them at the station. He wondered briefly if Ronan was yet accustomed to sleeping in, and then decided that for Boromir, Ronan would likely make an exception.

Haldir disappeared from view and Legolas returned his attention to the email he was typing to an old friend in Cardiff, a man whom he and Haldir met during the second half of the Great War. He paused, and then typed two words, which he knew his friend would understand. '_Be ready_.' Legolas re-read the missive, nodding thoughtfully. Yes, that would do. He clicked '_send_,' and then began the process to shut down his laptop. There was much to do, and very little time in which to do it.

_We are coming, Boromir_, Legolas silently promised and remembered a line from a recent (at least by Elven standards) poem, _though hell should bar the way_.1 Not even hell would keep Legolas and Haldir from reaching their friend's side.

TBC

1 Alfred Noyes' _The Highwayman_.


	5. Where We Need to Be

Author's Notes: I'm _so _sorry it's taken so long to get this up. I've actually been working on it since Christmas, but the characters have been fighting me every step of the way. It's been a bit like pulling teeth. So, to make up for it, this chapter is for everyone who has wanted things to progress between Boromir and Megan. This won't be the last time in the story that this theme will come up, but there will be much more of the intensifying relationship between our displaced warrior and his lady in the next story, which is titled _First Champion_. (Assuming the characters cooperate with me long enough to write that) For now, however, there's still the matter of the Ringwraiths on the loose and their desire to bring Lucius back into the fold. It ain't as easy as they think it will be. Then again, would we want it to be? In this chapter, Boromir struggles to come to terms with Megan's (very) dangerous job; Gavin and Francis discuss the latest developments of Middle-earth creeping into the modern world; and (in honor of meeting John Rhys-Davies at DragonCon last weekend), Ronan learns that reinforcements are on the way.

Chapter Four

Where We Need to Be

The tall, blond man paced back and forth inside the somewhat-small apartment, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He murmured, to himself and to the woman whose apartment he was currently in, "I should be with her. I should with them both." He slammed his fist against his thigh, gritting his teeth in sheer frustration. He was frustrated with his ladies, he was frustrated with himself, and he was frustrated with his inability to remember anything from his old life that would be helpful to their case. Knowledge was power, he often heard Megan's father say. Right now, if that was the case, Megan and Elena were powerless, because they didn't have nearly enough knowledge.

"You are where you must be, Michael, where you are most needed. Please, sit," was the soft plea of his companion. Michael, or more properly, Boromir, turned to face his current companion. Many hours passed since Megan dropped him off with Mrs. Watkins and Nicodemus, and Michael was still fretting. But, he started fretting even before his ladies dropped him off to protect the elderly lady, with able assistance from her hound. He couldn't help himself, not with the murder that morning. He knew what Megan did for a living, he knew that she investigated crimes and protected the community, but it never hit home like this before. And for the first time, he was starting to understand that she could die in the line of duty, knowledge that made his blood turn to ice in his veins.

"I cannot sit, Mrs. Watkins, I _cannot_. When I close my eyes, I see that man fall to that sword again, and I know, I _know_, that Megan and Elena could die. Those things can take on any form, Mrs. Watkins. Those things can take any form, and everyone is vulnerable," Michael replied, running his hands through his hair. He nearly tripped over Nicodemus, who parked himself between Michael and his next step. The man glared down at the hound, which lay down and stretched out his long body, gazing up at him. The former soldier would swear that Nicodemus was all but daring him to do something foolish. Michael sighed and collapsed onto that stool called an 'ottoman.'

"She is very dear to you. Oh, they both are, but your feelings for Megan are quite special and very strong," Mrs. Watkins said softly. Michael nodded. Yes. Yes, they were. He still couldn't remember much of his life as Boromir of Gondor, but he was quite certain that he never felt about anyone as he did about Megan. He was just as certain of that as he was that he had a younger brother. The elderly woman sat forward, putting her hand on his wrist. She continued, voice warm with remembrance, "You look at her as my husband once looked at me. I can tell when a young man is in love with a young woman. I am so very glad. For so long, I feared that Megan would never find someone worthy of her." Michael offered her an exhausted smile. Worthy ... well, he wasn't too sure about that. Yes, he loved Megan, and it was his duty, his obligation, his greatest honor, to protect her. Mrs. Watkins continued, "Is she aware of how you feel about her, sweet boy?"

"She believes I know too few women to be sure of how I feel about her, how dear she is to me. Those are not the words she uses, but it is true, nonetheless. She believes I will find someone better for me. Where does she get these foolish ideas? Why does she not see that she is beautiful and compassionate and courageous?" Michael asked, beyond frustrated with what he understood to be his Megan's blindness. He shook his head, continuing, "She took in an amnesiac, who could have been a monster for all she knew, she protects people who speak ill of her for their own pleasure, she cares for others and asks only that she be allowed to live her own life. Why would I not love her? What foolishness prevents her from seeing her true worth?"

"She has believed for many long years, Michael, that she lacks the beauty of her younger sister and her dearest friend. Oh, you and I know that's foolish, as do Elena and Kristin. For that matter, so do Megan and Kristin's parents. But from a very young age, she heard from other people that she isn't as lovely as Kristin or her mother. Ailsa was an incredibly beautiful young woman. You should ask to see her wedding pictures some day. And the boys of her age contributed to that. They only saw the outside; yes, Michael, I know, you see the outside as beautiful. But they did not. Megan quietly accepted that and chose to be the best sister and the best student and the best friend she could be," Mrs. Watkins replied.

"Then what do I do?" Michael asked softly. He looked up at the old woman, repeating, "What do I do? How do I make her see that I do love her, that she is beautiful to me?" She smiled at him kindly. His need, his desire, to pace relentlessly was gone. A nearly-desperate frustration and equally fierce despair took its place. He was a grown man of nearly forty-two years, not a callow child who didn't know his own mind! But in the very next breath, he understood why Megan was so leery. He was no longer a boy; but at the same time, he was a child in this time. And that's when he understood. He looked up at Mrs. Watkins, saying softly, "She is doing this because she loves me. She is trying to do right by me, because she loves me."

The hand on his wrist moved to his face and she said tenderly, "Now you understand. You will need to be patient a little longer, but it will be worth it. Megan is worth waiting for, don't you think?" There was no doubt in his mind, as he nodded fiercely. Yes. Yes, she was absolutely worth it; worth waiting for, worth fighting for, worth dying for. Mrs. Watkins continued, "Now, recently, I understand that you attended Mass with Megan; for the very first time, wasn't it?" Michael didn't bother asking her how she knew about that. Even though she didn't often leave her apartment, Mrs. Watkins seemed to know just about everything that went on in town, and certainly in this apartment complex.

"I did. I did not understand a lot of things, but Megan explained some of it when the service was ended. She also admitted that whenever she attends Mass, it reminds her that she doesn't attend because criminals don't take Sunday off, rather than any issues with her faith," Michael replied. He remembered sitting in Megan's car, listening as she explained that she saw herself as a nominal Catholic. Not necessarily because she had issues with the Church, but because she couldn't always attend services. More to the point, she often couldn't. He continued, "She isn't always honest with herself about her faith, about what she believes. I learned that even before Bethany was murdered last year, she was heading for a dark place. That was how she put it, and explained there were things happening at the time that she couldn't discuss." Now, more than ever, he wished he gave into his desire to hold her while she spoke of that time.

Mrs. Watkins sighed heavily and replied, "I do not know of these things. I do know that she was very angry and in a great deal of pain when poor little Bethany was murdered so cruelly. But for now, I wish to know your thoughts, how you felt about the Mass you attended." Michael sat back, thinking about what he learned and experienced during that particular Sunday, aside from Ailsa Rafferty's obvious pleasure at having her daughter with the rest of the family.

"The first and most important thing, I think, is how important the churches are within this community. It's really one of the centers of the community, is it not? The churches are one, the library is another, the community center itself. I remember when Megan took me to a function at the library, aside from the day when we were at the school library to judge science projects," Michael began. Mrs. Watkins nodded with a serene smile, and Nicodemus padded over to rest his massive head on Michael's knee as he described everything he saw and experienced and felt when Megan shared that part of her life with him.

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"It's me. I got your message, what's the situation?" Gavin Rafferty asked as soon as his father answered. He received the voice mail and while he already had an idea of what was going on, he needed more information. If Westron or Sindarin was involved, then things in little Campbell, North Carolina just got a helluva lot more interesting and not in a good way. And his father's deep sigh didn't reassure him at all. Maybe he should have expected this when Boromir arrived in town, but he was really hoping that they would have a little more time before all hell broke loose. Maybe enough time for the other man to regain more of his memories? Unfortunately, fate or chance or destiny … whatever you wanted to call it … was rarely that kind.

"I'll tell you everything I know, everything that Meggie told me when she called. Maxim Petrenko was killed this morning. Michael was there at the time, and he said that the language the two of you speak was used by the murderers. I don't know if it's Westron or Sindarin, but it's now part of Megan's investigation and we've gotta be straight with her." It was on the tip of Gavin's tongue to ask what his father meant, but Francis Rafferty said quietly, "Don't try that with me, Thorongil. I've known your identity for quite some time. Now, an ancient language has been invoked, and an equally ancient name with it: Saruman. You and I both know what that means, not just for us, but also for Lucius Wellington."

Damn. _Damn, damn, damn,__** damn**_. To buy himself some time, Gavin asked quietly, "How long have you known that I was Aragorn in the past?" There was a snort from the other end of the line, along some rather colorful commentary on Gavin's intelligence in Sindarin and English, with a little French thrown in for good measure. The retired Marine sighed, "Isn't that one for the record books: Aragorn reborn as Denethor's son? All right. All right, no more stalling. I used Sindarin to teach Boromir how to speak English, but we spoke Westron together as well. We can tell her that Sindarin and Westron are ancient, lost languages, but we can't tell her about the Ring Wraiths. Not just because she won't believe us, but because it'll never fly in court."

"I had thought of that, yes," his father replied dryly, and Gavin bit back a smile. The other man continued, "We also want to fly under the radar as much as possible. I'm sure that the Witch King hasn't forgotten that it was a woman who ended him last time. Megan and Elena aren't Eowyn, but I doubt if that will make much of a difference to him." Any desire to smile vanished with those words. Oh yes. How could he have forgotten that? Another question popped into his head. Namely, how in the hell did Francis know about Eowyn, when Denethor was either dead or lost to despair when Eowyn killed the Witch King? He would worry about that later. In the grand scheme of things, it really wasn't important.

"Right. So, I'll call Megan and let her know about the languages. What do we do about Lucius Wellington?" Gavin asked, though inside, he was shuddering at the conversation that would follow. Tell his little sister (who was a cop and all about evidence and proof) about a pair of languages that had been dead for thousands of years, and do so without mentioning his previous selves. Lovely. Just lovely. However, he knew that the second part was just as important: the matter of Lucius Wellington. Truthfully, his concern wasn't so much for Saruman's reincarnation, but for the man's grandson and great-granddaughter. He feared that the Wraiths would use Jason and Natalie as leverage against Wellington. Gavin had nothing against the man himself. Whatever Saruman's mistakes and sins were, they were Saruman's, not those of his reincarnation. Besides, he was a fellow veteran and that made him Gavin's brother.

"My bet is, the Wraiths have already made contact with him. There's nothing we can do about that now. However, you might want to give Ronan Daly a call. I know that he has a bit of a soft spot for Jason Wellington, and I've seen them at Lady J's more than once. I also know that Ronan is Gimli, Gloin's son, reborn, and he'll be in a better position to protect Jason and Natalie if that's at all possible," his father replied. Gavin nodded, momentarily forgetting that the other man couldn't see him. There was a long pause, and then his father asked, "What should we do about Megan? No, not about the languages, but there's more to this than the languages. We can't tell her about the Nazgul. She wouldn't believe us." _Yeah_, Gavin thought ruefully, _welcome to my world_.

Because his father was right. Megan wouldn't believe them. While she did understand that there were some things beyond the ken of mortals, that would be asking too much of her at this point. Hell, it was asking too much of just about anyone who didn't live through the War of the Ring, and even some who did live through that War, who lived that life. On the other hand, something had to be done to protect his sisters, this town, and anyone else who might get caught in the crossfire. And ... Gavin had the glimmering of an idea that would cover all bases: protecting his little sister and disseminating very necessary information to the police force.

He replied, "We tell Elena a part of the truth. She is far more open to the idea of possession than Megan is, and will be able to protect Megan when we can't and when Boromir isn't around. She'll also be able to protect herself. I think Megan needs a little more convincing before we can tell her about the Nazgul, and who could blame her? If I hadn't lived through it as Aragorn, I would never believe it myself." Really, it was a little on the unbelievable side: cursed kings from beyond the mists of history were in modern day North Carolina, possessing the bodies of innocent men to further the agenda of their Master. Yeah, he could see where Megan would want to call the men in white coats for him or anyone who tried to tell her that story.

Unfortunately, that understanding didn't make it any easier for him or their father or Ronan Daly to protect Gavin's family. Not for the first time, Gavin wondered if he should have prepared Megan by telling her stories about his time as Aragorn, rather than telling her about his deployments. Not straight out, of course, but he could have found a way to do it as a fairy tale. It might have helped in the long run (or given the poor kid nightmares in the short run). Well, there was no help for it now and now was what mattered, not what might have been. _Yes_, he thought, darkly amused, _keep that in mind for the next lifetime, when you have a stubborn younger sibling making it hard for you to protect him or her_.

There was a long silence as his father considered this, before finally acceding, "All right. All right. That sounds like the best we can do for right now. And for the record, I don't like this any more than you do, Gavin." The corners of his mouth quirked at his father's response. Well, that was good to know. There was another long silence, and then the other man asked, his voice dropping, "Is there any chance that the rest of the Fellowship is coming? We've already got Aragorn, Boromir and Gimli in town: if the Ringwraiths are back, there's no reason Legolas, and the Halflings shouldn't be here, either." Gavin wondered if he should tell his father that a reincarnation of at least one Halfling was already here, and then decided that could wait until another day. Focus on the immediate problem. Everything else could wait.

"I wouldn't put anything past Legolas. I know he's returned to the world of Men at least once, during the First World War. Or, more appropriately, during the first half of the Great War. He saved the life of Aragorn's reincarnation during that time, one Richard Dennison," Gavin replied. He didn't mention that Richard Dennison was the father of a local woman. He was sure that it really wasn't necessary, since the aforementioned local woman was fiercely proud of her father. There was a stunned silence from his father, but he could almost hear what the other man was thinking. _Why the hell didn't you tell me about this before_? Gavin pointed out before the question could be asked aloud, "We were pretending that we didn't remember those past lives at that point, remember? Besides, when I remembered that, I was reeling from the revelation that you were my birth father."

He almost literally heard Francis' teeth snap closed, followed by the sound of those teeth gnashing. The part of him that was Aragorn was torn between pleasure at getting this reaction from his former rival and denial of that same pleasure. Gavin told Aragorn to shut up, that this was Gavin's life and Gavin's family and Gavin's time. There was no actual answer, but Gavin sensed Aragorn drift away in the recesses of his consciousness. At last, he was rewarded (from his father) with a begrudging, "Point taken. All right. Let's sort this out, and then we'll work everything else out." Gavin allowed himself a small smile, and then began taking notes.

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Well, this was a fine kettle of fish! Ronan Daly scowled a bit at his Smartphone before returning it to his jacket pocket, grateful that Jason stepped away to take a call from one of his clients. They hadn't ordered yet, aside from their coffee, and Janithy's newest waitress, a sweet young girl named 'Tabatha' made two passes to check their coffee. She offered to come back when Jason returned to the table. With Tabatha satisfied for the moment, he thought about what he just read, feeling the scowl return to his face. More to the point, he scowled at the email he'd just received from the pointy-eared menace. Talk about a good news, bad news scenario! The bloody Witch King and the rest of his power-hungry friends were back and causing trouble. That was the bad news, and really, he wasn't entirely surprised by that, given recent events. After hearing about poor Maxim Petrenko (forget the newspapers, word of mouth was the primary source of news in Campbell), Ronan sensed that forces were gathering.

The good news was that the princeling and the MarchWarden were on their way. In truth, that was most excellent news; even if they had to avoid Boromir seeing them (because they had no idea how that sudden rush of memory would affect him), it would be good to have reinforcements. The former dwarf knew that he would need all the help he could get with the Nazgul returning, especially since Boromir's memory was still spotty, at best. He still had Gavin, but Ronan would feel better with more of the Nine around. And yes, he was looking forward to seeing Legolas' expression when he realized that Gimli was taller than he was. Petty? Perhaps. But wasn't that what friends were for? Especially Legolas, who would worry that something traumatic happened to change Gimli/Ronan during the last hundred sixty years or so if they didn't compete about _something_.

He was actually expecting something like this to happen, when he realized he'd found Boromir. Or rather, Ronan was expecting something to hit the fan, though he wasn't entirely sure what that particular something would be. There had to be a reason why so many of the Nine, and their supporters, were gathered in one, largely insignificant small town in North Carolina. There was Ronan himself, Boromir, Gavin, to name just a few. Ronan was in contact with the princeling, who in turn was in contact with both Merry and Pippin (also known as the 'scamps'). While Denethor wasn't an ally, as such, he was never truly their enemy, either … and in this life, he was the father of Gavin, Megan, Kristin and Carey. And while Saruman was associated with the Enemy, Ronan knew Lucius Wellington wasn't an enemy this time.

Ronan looked around him in the small diner, thinking about what would become of his friends and neighbors when Sauron's minions attacked. And attack they would … the only question was what form that attack would take. What would become of Janithy, the owner and manager of this local favorite, or young Mindy, who just opened her own business? What would become of Mayor Dennison, to his mother and his son? What would become of Elly and Jason and Natalie? Much as he despised them, what would become of the MBB? No one deserved the chaos and destruction that the Nazgul would bring, not even those 'ladies.' As he was pondering this threat to his new home, Ronan's young breakfast companion rejoined him, saying softly, "My apologies, Ronan, but I had to take that call. I lost some business recently, thanks to the MBB, and that was a new prospective client. Couldn't afford to let it go to the mail box." Ronan shook his head with a small smile. He was well aware of the MBB's little crusade against the young man's grandfather, because of the older man's recent choices.

"Not to worry, lad. You do what you must to provide for yourself and your little one," Ronan answered and Jason offered him a half-smile. However, he looked concerned, and the retired doctor asked softly, "What troubles you, Jason? Is it the new client?" The young man shook his head, obviously torn between confiding in a friend and something else. Ronan waited patiently. Jason was like many young men he knew (including himself, once upon a time) … you couldn't push him. He would tell you what he was thinking when he was damn good and ready.

After a few moments, Jason explained, "Something is troubling Grandfather. He's trying to put a good face on it, but I know my grandfather, Dr. Daly. Even when I was a spoiled brat, acting out after my parents died, I could tell when something was troubling him. And something is troubling him right now." Ronan could make a pretty good guess what that something was, and while he couldn't share his insights with Jason, he also wouldn't make light of the young man's concern. He respected the engineer entirely too much to do that.

"I think, laddie, that your grandfather wishes to work through what's troubling him first. Speaking for myself, I would make the attempt first to sort through and process my worries, before I told my children or grandchildren. I won't disrespect you by telling you not to worry for him. He's your grandfather, the man who raised you, and you love him. He's bloody fortunate to have you in his life. What I will tell you is this: when the time is right, when he is ready, your grandfather will tell you. In the meantime, you look after yourself and that precious little girl of yours. That, more than anything, will ease his mind," Ronan answered.

The young man thought about that for several moments, staring into his morning coffee as if it held the answers to all the world's questions. Ronan sipped at his own coffee, letting his companion work through this on his own. At last, Jason replied, "That's good advice. I'll do me best to take it." Ronan smiled at him, and Jason sighed, some of the worry slipping away from him, "I suppose that's the only choice I really have." For the moment, it was … but Jason's eventual smile reassured Ronan. Jason continued, "Now, we were getting ready to order, weren't we? I don't know if you've had Janithy's special breakfasts before, but I can highly recommend the chocolate chip pancakes." Ronan merely smiled … he did, indeed, have Janithy's breakfasts, and he quickly learned that her pancakes were among the best. Chocolate chip pancakes it was!

TBC


End file.
